Apology Biscuits
by slimandalittlebitfoxy
Summary: John is the one to get sick this time, and Sherlock gets to be a bit overbearing in this new turn of events. John finally gets frustrated with the excessive amount of attention and blows up at him, so Sherlock attempts to make up for it. Johnlock fluff!


**Prompt given to me by an anon on Tumblr: John gets sick and Sherlock attempts to take care of him. Naturally, reviews are greatly appreciated. They keep me motivated to write more! :)**

**I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. (Unfortunately!)**

* * *

It wasn't very often that John Watson got sick.

And, when he did, he could usually take care of himself fairly well. Rarely caught anything more than a mild cold, anyway. A few days with a stuffy nose and a benign cough was usually the worst it got.

Sherlock, on the other hand, got sick quite a bit more frequently. It probably had to do with all those bloody awful experiments he was always fiddling with, but it seemed like he was near-dying every other week.

Of course, the near-dying was an exaggeration. But that was what Sherlock seemed to be convinced that it was. Every time he got a runny nose or a cough or a 99.7 degree fever or, God forbid, _vomited_, he would stay in his bed until he couldn't milk it any longer.

And, naturally, John would be the one to take care of him.

It was, more often than not, all a ploy to get the doctor's undivided attention for as long as he could. He'd never been that petty about his ailments before they'd started their relationship. John realized this, surely, but he usually just went along with it and waited on his flatmate-turned-lover with anything he requested. It was an unspoken agreement between them, and neither one complained. John liked feeling needed by the usually very independent detective, and Sherlock reveled in the doting of his blogger.

But then the doctor's body decided it would be a brilliant idea to catch the flu.

And for the very first time, Sherlock was the one waiting on John.

And John _hated it._

He was a doctor. He knew that the flu would go away in about a week with enough rest. But Sherlock seemed intent upon keeping him up all hours, checking on him every few seconds, and fretting over him nonstop.

John was not even aware that it was possible for one human being to worry that much, let alone the usually cold detective.

_No, I don't want tea. No, I don't need soup. No, I don't need to be rushed to the emergency room. No, I don't need you to turn on the telly. No, I don't need another blanket. Yes, I am tired. Yes, I would like for you to go entertain yourself elsewhere. Yes, I am absolutely sure about all of the questions I just answered._

"Can't you go pester Lestrade or something? I just need to sleep, dammit!" John finally snapped, shouting at Sherlock, who was hovering over his bed and asking if he wanted tea for the thousandth time. He rolled over so he was facing away from the taller man, who was suddenly silent. "Just leave me _alone!_"

"Oh—right. Of course," the detective muttered, but John could still hear the hurt in his voice. It surprised him enough to sit bolt upright, which made his fever-muddled head spin. But Sherlock had already left their shared room, closing the door behind him.

John sighed and flopped back down onto the bed, eyes falling shut. He couldn't get up and go after him. He would have to apologize later. He finally had some peace and quiet, and he really could not pass up the chance to get some much-needed rest, so he allowed himself to drift off to sleep.

He woke to a loud clatter in the kitchen.

Startled, John managed to stagger out of the room to see what had happened, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes as he went. "_What the hell_—"

He froze at what he saw next.

Sherlock was in an apron, pretty much covered head to toe in flour. He had oven mitts on both hands and the kitchen was not faring much better than Sherlock himself. The counter, void of experiments for once, had been replaced instead by culinary clutter.

The detective's face was flushed, and he was staring at John wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights. There was a tray dangling from one hand. A few globs of dough were still clinging, but the majority had plopped onto the floor.

"Are you—you're not—" the doctor was in disbelief. "_Are those biscuits_?"

Never could he have imagined catching his detective in the act of baking chocolate chip treats—or, well, baking _anything._

Sherlock nodded, the gesture almost unnoticeable, and placed the tray on the counter. He crouched down and began to gather up the ruined dough to dispose of it. "Well, not anymore. They _were_ apology biscuits. Now it's just rubbish."

"But why would you—?" John was still highly confused.

"Because I upset you earlier and wanted to make up for it."

The detective looked remarkably like a scolded child. His shoulders were hunched in defeat as he shrugged. His eyes were downcast.

"But—I was the one being rude earlier. I know you were just trying to help," John tried to comfort him, grabbing one of his sticky hands. "Here, er—I'll run to the shop and get some more supplies and we can bake a batch together, alright?"

"No, you can't. You're sick, you should be resting," Sherlock shut him down, shaking his head. He started ushering him back to the bedroom. "I'll clean up—nevermind anything you just saw, it did not occur. "

As soon as Sherlock left the room and shut the door behind him, John called Mrs. Hudson on his mobile.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock is being awfully frustrating and will not let me leave the flat in my condition. D'you think you could run to the market and pick up a few things for me? I'll pay you back, no problem. You will? Oh, thank you!"

Not long after there was a knock at the door and Sherlock answered. He must have taken a quick shower because he was no longer covered in flour. Couldn't say the same for the kitchen, however. Money in hand, John left the bedroom and thanked Mrs. Hudson, the detective's quizzical eyes on him.

"Well, I just thought since I upset you earlier, it might be nice if I made it up to you," John explained cheekily.

They set to work, bickering here and there about what had to be put in the batter and how much and there were plenty of _no that's not enough_ and _you didn't mix it thoroughly_'s. They took turns administering sudden, enthusiastic kisses and love bites, their minds clearly preoccupied by other activities than the baking.

"These are the absolute worst biscuits I have ever had," Sherlock stated once they'd finished cooling, holding one of the slightly burnt confections.

"Couldn't agree more," John conceded with a nod.

They broke into a laughing fit that was cut off as Sherlock's lips met John's.

The detective broke it off, turning his face away to sneeze.

"Oh, God, Sherlock. I'm sorry!" John apologized, suddenly looking guilty. He took the break as a chance to catch his breath, his nose still stuffy from the flu he'd been racked with.

"It was inevitable, and you knew that. Worth it, anyway," Sherlock smiled, gently pulling the doctor closer. They were both looking rather disheveled from their baking session, and their blown pupils said it all.

"Shower," they agreed simultaneously, hands already roaming as they started stumbling towards the bathroom, eager to begin the next round of activities.


End file.
